Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
“Guys? Hey, guys? Why is my piano set up so my back is to the crowd? Is it cuz I’m ugly?”
…
…
…
“Uh, no. No, definitely not. Nuh-uh.”
“Nah, man.”
“The ol’ Pig don’t think you’re ugly, KG! It’s just that your looks is an acquired taste!”
“Yeah.”
“You’re scaring off the skank, Sloth! Hide your face!”
Bobby spent the entirety of the Europe ’72 tour looking like he was gonna ask you to help him put a couch in his van.
OR
In 1972, European buildings were either 1,000 years old, or 25 years old. Nothing in between.
OR
Sam Cutler and Don Quixote have the same shape skulls.
“Good evenin’, folks. We’re the Grateful Dead. We play rockyroll music.”
OR
The Dead’s career can also be read as three men’s desperate struggle to not have the least expensive guitar.
“Mine needs two cords, man.”
“Yeah, Jer. I see that. Nifty. But, uh mine has a motorized pickup that goes back and forth. And fancy crap on the fretboard.”
“LOOK UPON MY KNOBS AND DESPAIR, WIENERS!”
OR
That should have been the line in the poem.
My name is Ozymandias, king of kings;
Look upon my works, you wieners, and despair!
Much better.
OR
When was the last time you called someone a wiener? Probably been too long. Try it; you’ll left-foot a fucker. No one’s expecting to be called a wiener in 2019.
You have veered off-topic.
It was more of a drift than a veer.
Either way.
Sunlight, we are told, is the best disinfectant. We are told this by non-doctors: try sitting out on the deck with an open wound and see where that gets you. What you wanna do is take a slug of whiskey straight from the bottle, pour most of what’s left on the injury, make a manly face, guzzle the rest of the booze, and then say something like “Today was supposed to be my day off.” Do not use the rays of the sun as a medical treatment, Enthusiasts. (Unless you have a Vitamin D deficiency.)
But transparency does wonders for government, in theory, which is why political donations are open records and thus we can know that Phil thinks Beto is neat-o. Does Phil like Beto strictly because they both play bass guitar? No. Does Phil like Beto mostly because of the bass thing? Well, it’s either that or the man’s accomplishments, such as being tall and having hair.
But who are the other Grateful Deads supporting in the 2020 race? TotD breaks it down for you:
BOBBY
John Hickenlooper. (Longtime friends from Bohemian Grove.)
BILLY
Believes that donating to politicians “just encourages ’em.”
MICKEY
Andrew Yang, but tells everyone he’s a Bernie guy.
JOSH MEYERS
Only contributes secretly to Super PAC’s. (“Hey, Republicans buy singles, too.”)
OTEIL
Cory Booker, but it’s not the black thing; it’s the barefoot vegan yoga thing.
PIGPEN
Kamala Harris, and it is the black thing.
JEFF CHIMENTI
Chimenti goes with the candidate with the best hair, and so Chimenti is a Tim Ryan man.
MRS. DONNA JEAN
Whatever Republican challenges Trump in the primary, but not Bill Weld. (“Ah ain’t openin’ mah purse f’r no Brahmin, sugar.”)
KEITH
No donations, dead.
BRENT
No donations, dead.
VINCE
No donations, dead.
TC
No donations, broke.
GARCIA
Never even voted when he was alive, so why should he get involved now?
No one gives your ’77 beard enough credit.
“Yeah, she’s pretty manly.”
I don’t know if that sentence makes sense.
“Well, obviously my beard is female.”
Why?
“It’s, uh, sitting on my face. Not to get too Billy about the whole thing, but only ladies are allowed to saddle up.”
Sure.
“But, you know, the characteristics displayed are masculine. Robustness, stolidity, forward-thinking.”
If you say so. Why do you have Dee Dee Ramone’s haircut?
“I asked for it specifically. Gotta keep up with the punkers.”
Okay. Tell Phil I say hi.
“He’s not fond of you.”
I’m aware.
After a great deal of discussion, the school board decided that Heather Has Three Daddies, At Least Two Of Whom Are Schnockered wasn’t appropriate for the library.
OR
Ginge on a binge.
OR
Li’l Orphan Xannie.
OR
“Whose shoulder hurts?”
“Mine.”
“Over here.”
The important questions, Enthusiasts. We concern ourselves with only the most vital of the day’s issues. Let lesser sites finger their rosaries over peace, war, coffee cups left on tables, et cetera. These are trifles. No, we’ll not be spending our ever-shrinking lives boodling about in the intellectual shallow end. We’re gonna get down to what’s really real, you and me.
And, thus, we come to our question: Did Phil yoink Bobby’s BMW shirt?
I told you it was important.
Precarious?
“Yo.”
Why must there always be pandemonium?
“Referring to?”
The stage. It looks like a woodworking shop had a baby with a Guitar Center, and then the baby exploded.
“Eh. Band liked it this way.”
How could anyone like this?
“Maybe ‘like’ is wrong. How about ‘The band didn’t give a shit if it looked this way?'”
That sounds right.
W is for water, as in rain, which was dripdripdroppifying all over the scalawags and reprobates and chickies at Woodstock, which is where this photo was taken.
O is for omelettes, which you couldn’t get because there was no food because it was just a fucking field with no amenities.
O is for opera, which is the plural of opus, which just means “work.” When you call something an opera, you’re literally saying “this thing someone made.” Lot less fancy when you know that.
D is for Dirty Dingus Magee. Sinatra was in it. He played a cowboy.
Because when you think “cowboy,” you think “Sinatra.” Blue-eyed Enthusiasts will note the luxurious toupee under the hat; Frank named all his hairpieces, and called that one Husky Boy.
S is for Sly Stone, or perhaps Sha Na Na, (PREDICTION: When the absurd “every single note of every single band” 38-disc Woodstock box set is released, Rock Nerds will all rediscover the Na’s brilliance. Pitchfork is already readying a thinkpiece on Bowser, I guarantee it.)
T is a drink with jam and bread, or crystal meth, or testosterone, or the mohawked muscle of the A-Team, or a square, or one of two events that stop play in a basketball game.
O is pissing me off, honestly. Three appearances in one word is too much, O. Let the other vowels get a chance to play.
C is for Country Joe and his Fish, and I’m gonna pass. Hard pass.
K is allowed to ask me about my business just this once, and also potassium.
Phil, put that thing down.
“Bite me, dickweed.”
Seriously, man. Put it down.
“And I told you–”
SHLARRRRFHMMMPH
…
“The cat just threw up a reality made of tentacles.”
Yeah, it’s a flerken.
“It ate Grahame.”
Yeah. It’s a flerken.
“Is this some stupid comic book bullshit?”
It is, yes.
“Those movies are for dumb people and children. And dumb children. Lots of people will tell you that there’s no such thing as a dumb child, but there’s tons of ’em. Grahame couldn’t figure out how to work a door until he was 8. He would just screech at the knob until someone came and helped him.”
You hate to see that.
“Sure. But look at him now.”
He got eaten by an interdimensional portal in the form of a cat.
“He’ll be back. I know how this universe works.”
You’re not wrong.
OR
Can everyone else see the googly-eye face to Phil’s left? Because I saw it, and now I can’t unsee it.
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